The Ashes of Nightmares
by Fiera Evenstar
Summary: Agent Aster Kane: reluctant field intelligence operative for SHIELD. Crafty, clever, and cunning. Spy, assassin, thief. They promised her that she would be a hero. Her, a hero? More like a villain lying about their true identity. Of course, she would know all about lies. He taught her everything he knew.
1. Chapter I

I spent my first night in North Korea in a cell. It wasn't for anything that I had done, believe me. I hadn't been illegally shipping Bibles and newspapers from Europe or America to the wretched citizens. I was a perfectly normal teenage girl struggling to make my way in the world. Most people reveled in the olden times and their Glory Days. A few years before, everyone was jealous of the children of the twenty-first century with all of their cool gadgets and stuff. Now all they felt was sympathy.

I was a fairly standard child. I went to school, hung out with my books and imaginary friends in my spare time, and even had a decent job working at a small sugar maple farm in New Hampshire where I had grown up. The forests and the open skies seemed so far away now as I sat crisscross applesauce on my cold buttocks that were being crushed against the empty concrete pad designated as the floor for my cell.

There was hardly anything in the cell-including me. I wanted out, but my boss would never allow a break in the procedure that we had all agreed on. Not my sugar maple farm boss, but my other boss. The one that I'm not allowed to talk about, especially here, especially now. The last time that a procedure had been broken, which was in Russia, things almost ended very badly. Some of my coworkers nearly went out with a bang that day. Literally. You know Russia's obsession with nukes. Boom. Three hundred dead and nearly twice that many wounded. All in about five minutes, from the time that the bomb was dropped to the time that it detonated. Yay.

My name is highly confidential, but I suppose you can know. I trust you. My name is Adah Camielle Keeney. My coworkers called me by my other names: Luna, Owl, or Eclipse, depending on the day of the week and how close to me they were. The only other name that I was called was Astrid. Only one person called me that. No one else had the right to call me that. You could say that it was their special little nickname for me. Theirs and theirs alone.

I was American, with quite a bit of blood coming from Ireland, Italy, England, and Germany. By those simple facts, you might be able to gather that I could be quite...passionate at times, whether about my work or about the tempest of flames that I thrust at the people in my division who had no respect for me. I made sure that I got respect. It was a given part of me that I wouldn't stand for injustice and ignorance. Ingrained in my mind, body, and soul. Irreplaceable.

The cell was paneled metal. Cold, hard, grey steel that burned my hands at a touch, the door made out of the same material. It was quite ingenious, really, on the government's part, to make their prisons of high quality, like they actually cared enough about who they were containing to make sure that they were properly restrained. Clever, clever fools. Almost too clever for their own good. They forgot to seal the cell door properly.

"Well shoot me dead and call me a stuffed pig," I muttered. The cell was only a holding cell, really. I had pretty much knocked on the front door of the prison, demanding to their supreme officer to be arrested immediately. Not many people beg the North Korean government to arrest them. Especially a teenage American girl that appeared as if out of nowhere. They wanted to know who I was. I did laugh then. Oh, the poor fools. What would they do when they found nothing? Smiling coyly, I leaned back against the cold cell wall facing the door. I heard footsteps, and my lips curled upwards into a full-fledged smirk. I could hear everything that those men said through six inches of solid steel. I'll get to that in a bit.

A bolt turned. Something deep in the lock's machinery clanked and clunked. I cast my eyes upwards, taking in the sight of five Korean men in spiffy prison uniforms, one of them wearing a uniform a bit nicer than the others. You just had to love that beige color. It coordinated quite nicely with the bland grayness of the walls. All of them had black hair shorn close to their skulls, and all of them seemed to give off something foul. Like gamma radiation mixed with old socks full of fermented garlic. The one in the nicer uniform stepped forwards.

"So, we finally meet face to face, little girl," he said in his thickly accented voice. "Too bad one so young and so pretty is hidden in her cage like an owl hides from the light of day."

My smirk grew. His little comment on the owl amused me. How ironic. "Well boys, it looks like you got me," I said, eyes scanning the room for possible exits. It wasn't my job to escape. It was my job to provide cover for the rest of my coworkers to get their jobs done. I had been through this routine more times than I could count. "And, as your reward for doing such a fantastic job, I feel inclined to share a little bit about myself with you."

"Share what things?" one of the men on my left questioned, almost like a bark. His voice was so harsh, like he had been singing opera in a dark closet for weeks. The corner of my mouth lifted upwards and I stared at him long and hard. He had a mole on his neck shaped like a scoop of melting Double Dutch Chocolate ice cream. Well, almost like a scoop of ice cream. There were three thick greasy hairs sprouting like signal towers out of the disfigured flesh. I felt that it was not in my place to inform him of it.

"My dear captor, I have connections and information that you would love to kill to get. And here I am, your willing servant, prepared to offer up this knowledge at no cost. How does that sound?"

The head man glared at me as though I were some scum on the bottoms of his ridiculously shiny black boots. If it were up to me, I would steal those boots right off of his feet without his noticing. But, I had to stick to the plan. "I do not make deals with the devil!" he snarled at me. "You are coming with us for interrogation, little girl!"

I raised an eyebrow, still resting against the back cell wall. Such an unwelcoming man. Something bleeped mechanically against my arm, just softly enough that the guards with their average human hearing wouldn't be able to detect a thing. I had a small tracking device sewn into the lining of my shirt, and my coworkers were signaling me. I grinned. Mission accomplished. In a way, I was proud of myself. I hadn't done anything more than being an annoying diversion for a couple of stupid guards. But it had most likely saved hundreds of lives. If our little break in was discovered, there could have very likely have been war. Nuclear war. Big bad boom war. The United States wouldn't give in. Nor would our allies. We would blow each other up until all that remained of Earth was a cluster of burning coals and tumbled rubble. There was a fraction of change in one of the shadows outside the cell door. I took that as my cue to leave. Rising to my feet, blood rushed down the veins of my legs, racing and tingling. My eyes flashed.

"No, I'm not," I said as the two guards on the wings each stepped forward to grab my arms. "Today is not your lucky day, gentlemen." I glanced around them and. "You know, any time you're ready," I mocked my coworkers. "I'm not going to make a big elaborate speech this time, you know. These sorry excuses for vermin aren't nearly as poetically understanding as those Russians, if you get my meaning."

The guards looked so confused that it was humorous enough to laugh.

They died with that look on their faces.

Four simultaneous gunshots rang out through the metal compound. The tell-tale whistle-thunk sound of an arrow told me that someone else had joined the party. Five bodies dropped at my feet. I twisted my lips up into a grimace of disgust. Instead of the five guards, I was now facing my coworkers, all of them dressed in black and holding small hand guns. Except for one, but he was carrying a bow and arrow that could probably make even Chuck Norris run for Mummy.

"We were thinking about going out for some dinner after all of this was over," the man with the giant intimidating bow said, shouldering the weapon in one fluid motion. He had a quiver of fearsome-looking arrows slung over his opposite shoulder, and he had a pair of shiny biker's shades hanging on the neckline of his dark shirt. He raised an eyebrow at me, light blue eyes piercing me like one of his arrows.

"Yes, Clint, victory McDonald's doesn't sound half that bad. I could use a Bic Mac drowning in ketchup right about now." I shifted my weight onto my back hip. "Kirsty, did we get what we came for?"

Kirsty was only about three years older than me, but I still outranked her in terms of military status if you will. She had dark shoulder length hair that was tied up into a low ponytail, messy from what had probably included some fisticuffs. I was the shortest, but pretty close in height to the young woman who spoke next. She stood next to Clint, hands rested in an almost relaxed manner on the holster of her gun, looking perfectly at home in this dangerous environment. At least that was a common trait that we shared, all of us alive in this little compound. Short dark red hair that brushed her chin in waves, hazel eyes that calculated my every move, and a curved hourglass figure outlined quite nicely in her black fitted clothing. Natasha Romanov. Spy, master assassin, female confident, and good friend.

"Of course we got what we came here for, Luna." I was tossed something small, the color of whatever it was flashing through the air. Catching it swiftly in my palm, I opened my fingers, and nestled in the flesh between my fingers like the stamen between the petals of a lily was a small flash drive. It was nothing more than what a kid in elementary school would use to save a paper on. I grinned again, delicately sidestepping the fallen bodies at my feet.

"What's on it?" Kirsty asked me. "I mean, we just infiltrated North Korea for a little flash drive. Please tell me that whatever is in the files that it contains is going to be good."

"Oh, it's going to be good all right," Natasha remarked.

"Well then," I said, "let's go. We don't want to keep the director waiting now, do we?" Natasha quirked her lips up into a sinister grin. I had learned it from her. Good things to know.

"I think that the director will be most pleased with your work today, Luna," she commented.

"If we survive, I'm taking all of us out for some McDonald's," Clint promised.

"Sounds good, Clint," said the remaining man in the room, some orange-haired guy with freckles that made the Milky Way look sparse. "Now shut up and let's go."

"I still want that Big Mac," I quipped as we all walked out of the holding cell room. "And a large fry."

Let it be known that Clint bought all of us fries and Big Macs that day. Kirsty and the redhead man along with the fifth party member that I didn't know all that well-if memory serves me right, his name was Indigo-were mildly civilized when they ate fast food on the go. I got ketchup all over my face. Natasha and I had tried eating neatly, attempting to be the dainty ladies. We failed. I think that it was the only mission that we couldn't accomplish.


	2. Chapter II

As a little kid, I had never been afraid of the dark like many other children my age at that point in time. In fact, I embraced the darkness, loving it for allowing my imagination to run wild. Of course there was always the fear of the unknown, but it was never the dark that brought that on. Some things were more frightening in broad daylight than hidden in the cover of darkness. The unknown was not something to be feared by me, but something to be explored. I was a dreamer, you could say. Dreams were a large part of me, always have been and always will be. I also happened to be a person who believed in getting things done, meaning that I was also a doer. Reality was also very important. The past, present, and future al created a big puzzle in the fabric of time for me, and I loved puzzles. I was one of those weird people that stocked a whole section of their bookshelves with WhoDunnit: Solve for Yourself Mysteries and things like that along with architecture, fantasy novels, and mythology. I was currently opening the cover of an old book on the Norse gods and goddesses, soft leather cover warm beneath my fingers. I was thirteen years old.

The gold and silver script of the title was written in the ancient tongue of the Vikings, thin pages fluttering past my fingertips like the wings of pale-hued butterflies. The musk of the book made my mind travel back to those times of cold sea-stained cliffs and when the wind was wilder than the wolf, the skies unexplored and full of wondrous mystery. Even the sunrises and sunsets were more colorful and full of life. Sure, everything in the book was painted in primary colors with bits of green and brown here and there, the pages seemed to breath with a hidden life, a deeper magic than this world knew. I was reading in my room, legs curled underneath me, dark green and navy blue blankets and my white linen sheets spread around my form like a small sea.

Every time that someone opens a new book, a new world is born. A new land conceived of the imagination and dreams of the reader, for them and them alone, their own personal kingdom to travel about. The beauty of the different lands varied, always slightly different from their brethren but all connected like roots of a great tree, together in unison for all eternity.

Looking back on it opening up that book didn't create a new world. It brought back an old one, a world where magic flowed in great rivers through nine separate realms of ice and snow, flame and darkness, life and death. In a way, books are also like portals. They open worlds.

It was the Sunday night of a full moon, and I sat in my bed beneath the window, gazing out at the stars, wondering what could be out there—who else could be out there. I smiled softly to myself, because it was only a foolish notion.

All around me were screams. Screams of fear, horror, confusion, agony, and chaos. Everything was black, so deep and dark that I felt like I was drowning in blood thinned with tears. The very fabric of space and time was caving in around me, raining fiery stars upon my brow. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't feel, couldn't think. Just before I felt like I would go mad, something pulled me away from the dark, from the screaming, from everything. Then there was pain, pain forever and ever, only pain.

I woke up with a gasp. I felt like I hadn't breathed in years. Maybe I hadn't. I tried to open my eyes, but the light of whatever indoor facility I was in was too bright. Whiteness scorched my lids. Blindly reaching out in front of myself, I shoved myself upwards into a seated position, hearing the muffled shouts of people in the back of my mind. Where was I?

There were mechanical whirs coming from all around, surrounding me, the whole world slowly coming into sharper and sharper focus until I came to the realization that my senses had been honed somewhat while I had been asleep. Had I been asleep? I must have been, or else I wouldn't have been in the soft bed with the linen sheets that smelled like fancy detergent and like a hospital lobby. A hospital. Memories came flying back at me like a computer downloading hundreds of files at once. My brain felt like it was about to overload and short circuit. My breathing became short and rapid.

I knew where I was.

I wasn't supposed to be here.

If I was where I thought that I was, then I was most certainly in some sort of trouble. There were tubes attached to fluid packets hooked up to my body all over, most of them hidden beneath the shapeless folds of a mint green hospital gown. It was as though I could see the tiny nearly microscopic fibers of the floppy gown, individual particles woven together, like my eyes were seeing in mazing high definition. I looked down at my legs. Around my thighs, shins, and ankles were wrapped links of chains. There was still that hospital smell in the air, but a closer look at my surroundings told me otherwise. The room that I was in was white, but not in the sense that this was some get-well facility.

The walls were blank, simply painted a brilliant stark pallor that burned the inside of my brain. Burning. That's the only thing that registered with me in the first few minutes of my awakening. Only the burning, the pain. Burning, burning, and burning.

I heard a voice, broken English, heavily accented.

"Do you know where you are?"

I couldn't speak. I just sat where I was, burning from the inside out.

Korea, I thought. Project Korea was over a month ago.

"Do you know where you are?" The voice was stronger, more forceful this time, but to me, it felt like it was shattering my eardrums. All I could do was groan through my teeth. I had not enough strength to properly scream.

"You don't know what we did to you, do you?"

I mustered up a growl, the sharpness of the voice burrowing through my skull. I could nearly feel the bone fracturing.

"You're different now," the voice explained, a bit quieter. Not to provide me relief, but because it had gone from being the loud and boisterous kind of anger to the soft and quiet kind that felt like frost creeping over skin. "And you know it, you can tell, just by me speaking that something has changed inside of you. Your senses are working differently now, as they have undergone metamorphosis. You are the beautiful butterfly that has escaped the chrysalis of your everyday boring shell of a body."

I could see the lapel of the man's white jacket as my vision slowly came back into focus. I groaned again, breath hissing through my teeth. There was a small insignia stitched onto the front pocket, but it was blurred, even if I squinted.

"Russia," I spat out. "I'm in Russia." I wheezed again, and coughed. Red splattered against my cheek.

"I am fortunate to have found such an intelligent and pretty girl for my collection, especially one that speaks such fluent English. I am most impressed. You are from around here, I presume?"

"Yes," I snarled, tasting the blood gathering in my mouth, warm liquid iron running over my tongue. "If I am where you think I am." I had adapted an accent to match the man's as soon as I heard him speak. Definitely Russian.

"You are going to do some work for us, pretty girl."

"No, I honestly think that I am not."

"Would you like me to tell you what has been done to your body?"

"I pray nothing inappropriate or a form of harassment."

"No, no pretty girl, nothing of the sort. You see, now you have the full capability for becoming one of our most capable agents."

"Who do you work—argh!—for?"

"Oh hush, let me finish. Our scientists devised a way to give humans nearly animalistic attributes, not features, but instincts and senses. Your eyesight will be that of a hawk's, reflexes those of the agile wildcats, hearing sharper than a wolf on a clear moonlit night. You are no longer human, pretty girl."

I smiled, so weakly, pushing my limits as I tugged my lips into a grimacing grin. "Clint, 'Tasha, this really isn't funny," I grumbled, hissing as the chains around my legs dug into my flesh, metal abrasions raking across the skin of my thighs, riddling them with red lash marks. I hoped that this was all just another intense training session. That when the man in the dead of night had crept up behind me, in the middle of a SHIELD command center, so there was no place for him to hid, and introduced me to the blackness of unconsciousness.

There was no memory from that point on.

The only reason that anyone might have had for taking me was that flash drive. The harmless little flash drive. And this guy seemed to have no clue who I was.

It had been such an average night at the command center. I had been the last one to head up to my quarters, having enjoyed watching another few episodes of NCIS and a Sherlock with Natasha, who although kept to herself seemed to open up a bit around me, and loosen up enough to enjoy a few hours out of the day that didn't involve tracking national criminals. Not that tracking international criminals wasn't fun. It was probably the most fun part of the mission. The execution of the mission was exhilarating, but certainly not fun. No one called it fun. Not even the previous assassins—or more like reformed assassins. There was the thrill of the chase, but the capture was always a relief. We didn't track your everyday shoplifters or wild gunmen or the cads that starting shootings at elementary schools. We tracked people that did everything that they could to stay off of the grid. Our grid. We would always find them, but the objective was not just to find them, but find them before as little more damage could be done as possible.

I almost wanted to laugh. I guess I just found one of those idiots, I thought to myself. But the pain in my chest was still too much for laughter, stressing my lungs and my chest cavity. So I coughed instead, and one of the monitors next to me began beeping wildly, erratically. It was probably gauging my breathing patterns. As I coughed, my torso rose in quick and short spasmodic movements, flexing beneath the bonds that had strapped me to the chair. The chains around my chest cut once again into skin, and a groan ripped up my throat.

"Stop that, you must lay still!" the doctor barked in that heavily accented voice of his. As he tinkered with the machinery behind me, muttering explicates in Russian under his breath with ferocity, blackness blossomed behind my eyelids. My ears started ringing. The doctor's curses began slipping into English. The machinery let out another loud string of disgruntled electronic whirs and clicks. "Son of a—!"

The rest of whatever he said was drowned out by a circuit frying, and one of the machines billowing smog of a most unpleasant colour into the air. Alarms began to ring. Fire, fire, fire, they seemed to say.

A pair of large hands, rough around the edges and covered in calluses at the tips thrust themselves beneath my back, cuffing my wrists. Apparently the doctor was less brilliant than I had been willing to give him credit for. But no matter. My ears were still ringing, some awful pressure building up ready to release. My vision was still fuzzy, clear enough though to see the doctor, foolishly unlatching my legs, and then my neck, and then my waist.

Vulnerable. That was something that I had sworn that I would never feel when in the hands of an assailant. Vulnerability was deadly. Helplessness meant that you had no sway, no influence in a situation. All you could do was stand by and watch. If you were vulnerable in the field, you were as good as dead. Every day at SHIELD, that was what I trained for. I learned how to shape compromising situations and bend them to my needs. Being helpless was something that we trained for as well. I hated training for those things that should never happen. Unfortunately, "should" and "could" blend like oil and water. We were trained to tackle the possible and the impossible. The impossible had become possible several times. And there comes another one of the Agent's jobs. Covering all of that stuff up.

That doctor had done something to me. This was no super-soldier serum or radioactive juice that would cause cell growth to accelerate dramatically on command of a specific feeling or emotion. This was foreign. Alien. Whatever had been put into my bloodstream was not human. I remembered what the doctor had said to me, that I was no longer human. Oh, joy.

It then occurred to me that the doctor was not the man that I need be worried about. He was only the puppet. He was transmitting that alien substance into my veins, but on someone else's orders. Puppets could be just as deadly as their masters. Only when the strings were cut, though. I gave a quick once-over of the doctor, taking in his features, his clothing, everything from his greyed hair and ruddy beaked nose to the shoes on his feet.

He was not like most doctors that one would expect. He had boots on, warm boots that made me jealous over how much more comfortable this man was then I, the little lab rat freshly unshackled from the examination table. Instead of a white lab coat that matched the sterile atmosphere in the room, he wore a heavy leather jacket with woolen lining. He was not tall at all. In fact, he was only an inch or two taller than me. Bringing my hands up to my throat to rub at the chafed and thin, delicate flesh, I pulled away quickly when my fingertips came back slightly damp and red. The doctor was no doctor. Just a puppet, I told myself again. A puppet whose master knows me better than I would have thought. What had been on that flash drive? I didn't have the level of access clearance for debriefing on the information that it held. And now, that flimsy puppet was just that. I had no fear of him any longer. He was a puppet with strings, strings that I was about to tangle.

Smoke was pouring from the machinery, and the puppet cursed again as something that sounded critical when it fell clanked and clunked. He had to turn his back to me for a second. A second...that was all that I needed. All anyone who knew how to properly assess a situation would know. It was in those few vital moments that I gathered my wits, grunting against the pain of the abrasions on my shivering body beneath the airy and shapeless hospital gown, and struck.


	3. Chapter III

I was fourteen when I busted into a North Korean prison, and going on fifteen when I had been kidnapped and sent off to Russia, for what purpose, only God knows, other than the puppet's master. I had knocked the puppet out with a heavy full-leg side kick that cut right across the back of his neck. I didn't have to proceed to punch his lights out, because as he fell, his forehead smacked dead on the smoldering piece of equipment behind the chair that I had been strapped down in.

A lot of you are probably wondering how these sorts of things get covered up. How a daughter's absence from home for a week can go without reprimand. That's what SHIELD does though. They cover things up, burying things that shouldn't have been found in the first place, keeping the secrets that no one else would dare to keep. There was always opposition, there was always another ugly fanged and scaled head of Hydra sticking its winding neck out, daring us Agents to cut it off. Mythology made it quite clear that the only way to kill a hydra was to burn it to poisonous ashes, casting its essence back to Tartarus. In our case, we had to decapitate the hydra branches by cutting out their source. Unfortunately, this was the one thing that SHIELD had some trouble finding, and by the time that the Hydra center was found, it had moved once again. Always on the move, which made it hard for people to settle down, for long experiments to be run. Less time for civilians in the area to get hurt.

I don't know exactly what SHIELD did in order to cover my disappearances. The same way, I suppose, they did with all of the other Agents that harbored at SHIELD Headquarters. Secrets, loopholes, secrets. This was how we were protected.

After the puppet had been knocked out, I had stolen most of his outer clothing, along with his boots and something that resembled a security pass, and a small handheld gun. The alarms for fire were still blaring. I still felt like some idiot had rubbed my naked body over a rough bed of hot coals, but the clothes, although smelling of un-showered man (a highly unpleasant odor, thank you very much), were warm and enveloped me in heavy fabrics, something that seemed almost foreign to me. The security pass that had been in my pocket was my key to getting out of the building. Surprisingly, no one came after me. It was like the rest of whatever facility I had been in was completely evacuated. All that led to the outside from my experimentation room was a long corridor painted bright red. How fitting. At the end of said corridor was a heavy metal door with only a small slot to the right that gave any indication of a way out. The small pass slid inside to fit perfectly.

I was free. The door was opened, and I was greeted by cool sharp air that bit at my lungs and a rocky path that winded down from whatever compound I had been in, built into the side of a cliff. The door was small compared to the sheer mass of the flat-faced rock, impossible to climb on foot. One would have to either fly, or take the long way around, unless they found the path. Sweaty and woozy, I stumbled slowly down the path, stolen over-sized boots kicking away stones in front of their square steel toes. The scuffed leather was dusty with dry earth as I went along, the rocky path giving way to a little back road through a thick lining of trees that rendered the compound virtually invisible.

My ears were still ringing. I was having the mother of all migraines, and I didn't have any flipping Tylenol. My eyesight was strangely fuzzy, because I had always had 20/20 vision. Spot on. Right now, the only thing that mattered was getting back to headquarters. I was just a kid on the back country roads of rural Russia. Oh what had I gotten myself into?

I could see the tip of the cliff, a jagged shark's tooth peeking over the tops of a seemingly endless row of bottle-brush pines. The sky was a grey tinge that warned me of coming snow. The road before me was a thin one, dusty as my boots, small piles of snow tossed from driver's wheels thrown into the drainage rivets lining the asphalt. Tire tracks were visible, printed out in nice clean white lines made out of road salt and slush dried by the sparse sun. People came down this road recently, and I was willing to bet that if I kept heading in the direction that most of the traffic had be flowing, I would eventually find a city and a mode of transportation or a way to contact SHIELD.

Darker swirls of cloud peppered the lightened ones, reminding me of a cookies and cream bowl of ice cream. Shut up, shut up, and don't think at all about food right now, I scolded myself. Get to a phone. Find someone with a phone that is trustworthy. Remember what Nat taught you. You know enough words to make it without the government breathing down your neck, and if all else fails, just pull the best accent you've got. You can fool computers with your voice. Now all that you have to do is pull yourself together—and forget everything that happened until you're brought in for questioning. Yeah. Good plan.

With my hands slid deep into the pockets of the overlarge jacket and toes curled to accommodate space in the boots that clomped like small pony hooves down the side of the road, I headed off into the direction of what appeared to be the slowly setting sun, the glowing orb sending the horizon from lifeless grey to a purple and orange that seemed to bleed out of a rift in the cloud formations. My body felt like it was bleeding, bleeding, burning again, over and over. All of the sedatives that I had been injected with and the drugs made my reactions slow and clumsy. This was why I hated drugs. They slowed down and inhibited my brainpower. Slow. I hated being slow, especially when I knew that I could be fast.

It was nearly sundown when I came across something resembling civilization. It was a tiny town, made of squat cheerful-looking buildings. The streets were lined in shops that were plastered wall-to-wall in a friendly manner, all of the windows lit up like small pinpoints of candlelight against the dying sun. Cars in foreign models painted in blacks and reds and greys were sparse, as most of the people that I could see were walking to and from the shops. One woman was carrying a handbag bulging with a large cookie tin and a few scented candles. Cinnamon, vanilla, and roasting chestnut were written on the half-concealed labels, glossy pearl with gold trim, in swirling black calligraphy. Wait, how…how did I know that? I then noticed that some of the pressure behind my eyes had been relieved. The headache had lessened somewhat, and the piercing ringing that had been rattling my eardrums had been subdued. I could hear the muttering of the pedestrians as though they were right next to me. Unfortunately, everything was in Russian, and only a few words were actually understood. But I could _hear_ them. There was a young couple whispering sweet nothings to each other outside of a little restaurant, and there was a small smudge of some chocolate dish on his cheek that his lover was attempting to wipe off with her thumb.

I smiled softly as I approached the town. Maybe whatever they had done to my vision and hearing wasn't bad at all. Perhaps this unexpected experiment would turn out to be a gift. Whatever power this was, it wasn't of this world, but I made myself a promise right then and there that I would never abuse it. This thing inside of me was like a knife. It could be used to protect or to harm. The one thing that I did know about it though? It was going to stay a secret.


	4. The Past: Part I

The room smelled like old paper, manuscripts written in fading ink, bound leather, and an ancient magic that can only thrive within the pages of books. The room was a branch of a great library, with towering walls of glossy dark red-tinged wood that came to a domed ceiling. There was little floor space, but in the far corner of the room was a cushion, bent in the middle from so much use. It had been a fine throne for any bookworm, and still was, despite being thin and threadbare now.

Such a place was the library, likewise to a maze in its labyrinthine structure that begged to be explored. Bookshelves that reached up farther than a dozen feet into the air acted to some like a prison, but to others, a very few and select amount, it was a sanctuary, a place of gentle peace and quiet, where one could completely absorb themselves into an old tome and remain in the same position for hours on end, until the candle burned low and they had to run off to fetch another.

On a day that the golden dusty light refused to filter through the thick panes of glass, someone was doing just that. They knew that this little section of the library was in the dead center, reachable only by those who could remember the very floor's layout and navigate the tall shelves stocked to nearly bursting with books. The reader had left the book that they were reading on top of the worn cushion, a heavy volume with leather binding the color of burnt ash. There were stains scattered across the leather like darker islands in a dark sea, soiling from being so old. The words within were in no language recognized by any man. Delicate runes sprawled themselves out over thin leafed pages, the pages themselves aged and yellowing from the years it had sat on the shelf. The book had not been picked up for centuries, ignored on its shelf amongst all of the other stories. But this…this was no story. This was a book of magic.

The reader returned but a moment later with two more candles, large columns of ivory wax, wicks still untouched by flame. The reader wound their way through the bookshelves as if he had been through them a thousand times, if not more. And he had. This library was his domain, his safe house from the rest of the world. On soft foot and with gentle step, the reader wound the last turn before arriving where he had set up camp. Next to the cushion and the book was a small metal plate that the reader put one of the candles on. The other was placed next to the cushion for later use. The light of one candle would last through the night.

Along with the candles, the reader had brought a cloth napkin filled with small snacks; little sandwiches, cookies, pastries, and an apple were all tied up together in the folds of the cream cloth which was also placed next to the cushion, within the reader's reach. Their night was planned, and knowing that the daylight was fading slowly behind the thick clouds below the horizon and no one cared for their whereabouts after sundown, the reader was prepared for a completely uneventful afternoon melting into a night where only the words on the pages of the book mattered. Picking the book up from the cushion, the reader leaned it up against the shelf that formed one of the walls of the center of the library, taking the cushion from its usual place and laying it down next to the unlit candle and food. The reader leaned down and rested their forearms on the cushion, hands resting comfortably on the cover of the book. Words danced at the tip of the reader's tongue as they were breathed out at barely a whisper. With a soft stutter, the wick of the candle on the dish began to smoke, and eventually a small glowing orb of orange flame sprouted into existence, growing as it ate away at the flammable wick.

The reader grinned. They willed for the flame to grow, and then to shrink, the fire bending to their commands. The reader was so absorbed in the task that they didn't register the subdued padding of bare footsteps against the floor.

The girl was curious. She had stumbled upon the library in her flight to escape her parents for a short while. They were involved with politics, something that the young girl swore not to get so deeply involved in when she was old enough to go out into the world. Her father had remained closer to her than her mother, and it was only natural that she began to adapt his mannerisms. She was bold. Curious. Stubborn. Witty. Anything and everything that her mother would have dubbed as absolute folly. When forced into traveling with her mother, the girl had instantly made herself scarce. It was easy, where she and her mother were staying. It was so easy to get lost in the hallways, corridors leading around to the farthest corners, easily tricking the unprepared. But it was perfect for the girl, who _wanted_ to get lost, and stay that way.

A large door engraved with words from languages and tongues from every Realm was partially open, and bringing her face up to the crack between door and frame, she glimpsed row upon row of books.

 _Ever words intertwine_

 _The fates of young and old_

 _Forever pages turning on_

 _Of silver stars and heroes gold._

With a smile, the girl pushed the door open another few inches, giving her enough room to slip inside. As she carefully shut the door behind her, the girl was immediately greeted by the scent of everything that a library should hold. Books in towering shelves graced towards the ceilings, and the way that the rows were set up constructed a maze. There was something else that did not quite belong with the setting. It was hazy, smelling of wax hinted with a delicate smoky essence. Someone was burning a candle. Instead of turning away like she probably should have, the girl took a deep breath and entered the labyrinth of books.

She followed the scent of smoke, letting it waft over her, filling her nostrils. She passed by rows and rows of books, far too many for her to count, enough to keep an avid reader occupied for many lifetimes of Men. She walked, and she walked, making her footfalls quiet. Something about this place demanded serenity and calmness, and the willingness to be lulled into another world by some writer's voice. Suddenly as she rounded a bend, the girl saw a light, dim at first, but growing brighter as she stepped towards it. Probably a candle. Was someone in here at this hour?

The light abruptly went out. The girl caught her breath as everything was thrown into complete darkness. The bookshelves blotted out any light that the sun could have cast. She didn't dare to move. And then the light came back, stronger than before, then toning down, only to flare up again. It repeated this process two whole times before the girl dared to move. When she did, she peered around the next corner and caught her breath.

There was a large candle in a dish, a simple metal dish that servants often ate their meals from. It was not the candle itself that drew her attention, but the flame itself. It flickered, but not like a flame normally would. Its movements were far too erratic, and it bent and shrunk and grew despite the fact that there was not a breath of wind. Tearing her eyes from the flame, her gaze settled on a shadow coming from a corner. A person-shaped shadow. She leaned ever so slightly forward, and her own shadow slipped into the opening in the shelves, betraying her presence. Almost too quickly for her to follow, a hand shot out of the darkened corner, and the flame was extinguished. There was no wind. No breeze was strong enough to have blown out the flame in such a fashion. It was almost as if the fire had been drawn back into the wick, not blown outwards. There was no smoke. All that could be seen was the dying glow of the wick. Something rustled in the blackness.

"Who are you?" came a quiet yet commanding voice. Male. Breathing heavily.

The girl was silent.

"Who are you?" the voice demanded once more, a bit less gently this time.

The girl swallowed before she answered, trying not to let her voice quiver in the presence of this stranger. "I am Astrid. Please, I just came in here to get away from my mother. Honestly, I didn't know anyone was in here. It's just that…libraries tend to make good hiding places, don't they?"

To her surprise, a chuckle came through the dark. "I could not agree with you more on that, _Astrid._ Why were you watching me? Had you seen…?"

"What happened to the candle?" she asked. "I couldn't see you. You were hidden in the shadows, but you were doing something, weren't you? Did you make that candle go out?"

The voice was hesitant to reply. "Yes, I did," it said at long last. It was a young voice, though, nothing old and ancient and powerful, but it held a weight to it, like whoever was speaking would be a good storyteller. The voice was liquid, and flowed over her. It left her skin covered with gooseflesh as a chill ran up her spine. "And I can make it light again."

Slowly, the candle's flame was released once again, and it escaped as if the tendrils of heat were the petals of a golden flower bursting into bloom. The small corner of the library was immediately thrown into a bath of amber light. The girl gasped. _Magic._

Standing a few feet in front of her was a boy about her own age. He was a tall and gangling fellow that far surpassed her own height, which was average for most girls that had lived for as many years as herself. He wore a simple green tunic with a plain and unadorned brown leather belt around his waist. His long legs were clothed in dark breeches, and plain leather boots, scuffed at the toes, enveloped his shins. Altogether, he looked nothing important, but there was something in the way that he held himself, an air about him, that spoke otherwise. His hair was longer than that of many of the boys that she had met, and the color of a raven's wing. He had pushed it back from his forehead, but because the boy's eyes were staring at the floor, some of the strands had fallen out of place.

"You…you can do magic, then?" the girl asked. Astrid, the boy thought. How curious to name a girl after a star. Curious indeed, and even more curious was how she managed to find him, just happened upon him, alone and playing with fire. If his instructor knew that someone outside of the family circle knew of his powers…

"Yes, of course I can," the boy snapped back. He was still staring at the ground, like if he concentrated hard enough, he could burn a hole through the flooring tiles in the library. A muscle twitched in his cheek. Astrid gaped at him. She had only heard stories, in books just like the ones all around them, surrounding them. The dim amber light cast sharp shadows across his features, accenting the hollows of his cheekbones.

"Can you—can you show me more?"

The shadows stretched, showing the lips of the strange boy curving up into a grin. "You are not afraid?"

"No, no I want to see more, really," Astrid pleaded. She crossed her arms over her chest. "And I never did get your name."

The boy did look up then, and a pair of piercing blue eyes bored into her own, which were a bright hazel that were now more prominently green than anything, reflecting the tones in her aquamarine tunic that came down nearly to her knees. The tunic was cinched around her waist with a braided silver cord, the fabric solid in color. Those eyes though…the way that they seemed to stare into her soul was unnerving. A mischievous grin played with the boy's lips.

"Loki."

* * *

Hello, my dear darling readers! Yay, character introductions! Please let me know what you think and review! Your feedback is much appreciated.

Loves and virtual chocolate-chip cookies,

Fiera E.


	5. Chapter IV

I borrowed a cell phone from a nice Russian lady. Well, actually, I temporarily stole it. It wasn't even a very nice model, and when I slipped it out of her purse in a line at one of the shops (it happened to be a trinket and baubles place) I doubt that she would have cared much if she _had_ noticed.

The first person that I even thought about phoning was Agent Phil Coulson. I expected to be yelled at. The man acted like he was my second father when I stayed at headquarters, which was something that may have been strange at first, having someone care about you that way, but I grew to treasure that bond I shared with him. Acting as the father figure also meant that I didn't get away with anything without him finding it out. That was the annoying part of Coulson caring about my wellbeing. There were, however, many pluses to having him on my side. Occasionally, I would get to hear bits and pieces of his experiences in the field. The one thing that he _wouldn't_ say anything about was what had occurred in the days following his supposed death after the Chitauri attack on New York. Those were tough times for all of us.

I was new to the Field Operations division when we got the Code Red call in from Fury. I was at a training session with Kirsty, the same woman that I would be with when infiltrating North Korea. I was so young. Natasha had been the one to push my joining SHIELD. I guess the redheaded assassin saw potential in me, something else that everyone else either couldn't see, or were ignoring. We had been on our eighth-grade trip to Washington D.C. Everything about that day is highly classified. Just let it be known that the president of the United States is in debt to our Agents. That's all I _can_ say. And believe me, I know how it feels to be left in the dark. Unfortunately, with my job, that's how you stay alive.

The day that the Chitauri attacked marked my first solo assignment. Agents were stationed all over New York City in an effort to evacuate all of the citizens. The Agent's first priority in facing an extra-terrestrial attack, as Director Fury later told all of us, our untold numbers, was to get the innocents out so that the battle could take place without a bunch of people that shouldn't have even been put in danger didn't die. In other words, we didn't need blood on our already filthy hands. I had never killed anyone. I had never had a reason to, or had been in a situation that called for it. Natasha said that having a clean slate was a good thing. That you didn't have to go to bed every night questioning your actions, wondering if you had truly done the right thing. That your memories weren't full of how many wives and children were now without husband or father. That you could still go home to your family and look them in the eye when you spoke, not having to think about the man that you gunned down last week as you baked with your mother, watched sci-fi movies with your father, hugged and kissed your little siblings tonight.

Every night, though, I dream or being a killer. Hurting the ones that I love. I wonder what everyone would think of me. I can imagine my parents, disappointed. Frightened. Distant. I can see the faces of my little siblings when they realize that their big sister, their guardian angel, is nothing but a cold-blooded killer. The only people that I've told this are Natasha and Coulson. I told Natasha because she understands about the nightmares. She's lived it. She doesn't want me to. I told Coulson because he took me aside one day and led me down to the interrogation room with the video feed and coms cut off. He asked me what had been bothering me, because I hadn't been acting like my normal inquisitive and witty self. _Some sort of spark's died in you, Agent Luna,_ he had said to me using my code name. Always with the code names here. But I understand. I've always been one to understand, at whatever cost. I find things out. I'm no hacktivist, nothing that advanced, but I was put into the field for my skills at adapting to environments, taking on the personalities and behaviors of the natives wherever I was deported. I would become one with the people, an expert on blending in with the crowd. Being good enough to fool computers with my voice and a young girl, I would be the fly on the wall. I did my job, and I did it well. _Well then,_ I had replied, _I just…need to find someone that gives it back to me. My spark._

Right now, I was standing in the corner of the shop, half-hidden behind a table stocked high with more cookie tins—the kind that I had seen earlier in that woman's purse—holding the briefly stolen phone as far away from my ear as I could after dialing the special secure line that was guaranteed to reach Coulson. I heard the dial tone come up, each digit represented with the first few notes of Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody". It had not been my idea. Or Coulson's. Anthony Bloody Stark had messed around with the wiring, and no one had the heart to change it back to whatever it used to be. The notes didn't correspond with the numbers, so it took a while getting used to. A click sounded as someone picked up the line at the other end. I drew the phone up to my ear and whispered into it.

"Er, hello?" I asked, cradling the phone to my cheek as I pretended to browse the cookie tins. I switched over to a Russian accent once again.

"Where are you?" came the boss's exasperated voice.

"I'm buying cookies in Russia, Coulson, what do you think? They actually look quite good," I added contemplatively, resting my forefinger on my bottom lip. "Chocolate or vanilla wafer? Do you want me to buy a little knick-knack or something for your desk? Might make a nice souvenir."

I could almost see the man sighing at his desk, crisp suit wrinkling at the elbows as he let his head fall into his open palms. There was a scritch-scratch in the background that reminded me of a pen on paper. He was probably ready to record what I was saying.

"Look, I'm somewhere in Russia. I'll get back to you on exactly where I am. There's a lady up at the counter who probably knows something, one second please Coulson dear…"

"What—?"

I strode out from behind the cookie tin pyramid with a package of vanilla wafers in hand and up to the front counter.

"Excuse me?" I placed the tin up on the checkout counter. The lady at the counter had thick grey hair up underneath a lace kerchief and a flower-printed dress that looked quite sweet on her slightly pudge grandmotherly figure. Her eyes were wrinkled at the corners from smiling, and her cheeks rolled up when she saw me into little rosy apples.

"Guten tag, vozlyublennaya," she said warmly, blinking her twinkling eyes. I grinned back.

"Ty govorish' po-angliyski?" I said, twirling a strand of my dirty-blonde hair around my finger with a shy smile.

"Oh, yes, yes sweetheart," she said.

"Thank goodness," I breathed. "I am really sorry, I'm visiting here on a business trip, and I'm afraid that I don't know exactly where I am." I looked downward sheepishly, the phone still concealed in my hand, glowing screen pressed against my thigh.

"You are in the town Severomorsk, Krasnyy Solntse Street. We are a bit out of the way here in our little shop, but it has been in the family for generations."

"Thank you so much, Miss," I thanked her. "And I'll take the cookies as well. How much?"

"In American dollars, about ten, girl. Where did you come from?"

"The last place that I traveled to was the capital, and I am thinking about staying here or somewhere close for the night. Where is the closest airport, may I ask?"

"There is a Naval Air Base not far from here, but the only way out is by boat—"

"Thank you, Miss," I said with a grin. There was a piece of Russian money inside of the pocket of my stolen jacket and I handed it over the counter to the lady. Judging by the name of the shop, _Avilov's_ , that was probably the surname of the grandmother lady. "Will this…will this be enough?"

Her eyes widened. I smiled through tight lips. Judging from her expression, it was probably well over ten American dollars, but I told her to keep the change. I took the cookie tin from the counter and walked out of the shop, leaving Miss Avilov staring at my back, and possibly the unmentioned welts across my neck.

"You got all that, Coulson?" I queried as I rounded a deserted street corner. The phone had been on the whole time.

"I should think so, Agent Luna. You are going to explain all of this the moment you get back to headquarters. You disappeared off of our grid for over twenty-four hours. So you'd better have something good to say. Or else a really good excuse. The cookies are vanilla, aren't they?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get to the Naval Base airport. We can pick you up there tomorrow morning. Have your speech prepared, because I'm going to be on the chopper that's going to pick you up. And save some of those cookies for me, won't you?"

I knew that I looked suspicious. I was a girl that looked just about old enough to drive in clothes that would fit a man twice her width. There wasn't much of a height issue with the pants, except for the fact that the waistband was so loose. Unfortunately, I had a thin waist and curved out hips that created an hourglass figure that I so often tried to hide with looser clothing, but now the combination fit the pants very awkwardly.

I never liked people that tried to describe me to myself. Appearances were empty words to me, petty things that would serve as covers and disguises. Nothing more, nothing less. I had a unique build. I was toned, and when I crossed my arms across my chest, you could even see the musculature on my forearms. However, despite having a very strong profile, I had not lost my feminine grace. Some men would call them "sultry curves". Which also proved my theory that most men were pigs. Some weren't, but they had to work hard to get into my good books. I also knew though, that instead of being soft around the flared hips and thighs and waist, upper back and such, I was surprisingly hard. I was not skinny in any way, shape, or form. I was not petite in height, either. I wasn't _tall_ , just a few inches over the average height for my age. My hair was long, dirty blonde that hovered between light brown and honey. It was always a bit lighter in the summer months. My eyes were hazel, never really one color, always a bit more green, grey, or brown depending on the clothes that I had worn that day.

On my way to the naval base, I could almost feel Coulson's aggravated presence looming over me. I closed my hazel eyes, briefly, enjoying a nice glimpse of the scenic route before all hell broke loose.

 **Hello, dear readers! Please review and let me know what you think! Another flashback chapter is coming up!**

 **Thanks y'all,**

 **Fiera**


	6. The Past: Part II

"That's an interesting name," Astrid remarked, and sat down on the library floor without further invitation. She wrapped a strand of her hair around her forefinger, rocking back gently with her legs crossed in front of her. The boy, Loki, said nothing, as though he agreed with her. The flame of the candle flickered curiously, as if it were reflecting the boy's thought patterns. This boy this…this _Loki_ knew about magic. Someone taught him, but he was obviously built out of the raw power and energy.

"Most say that practicing the art of magic is a woman's chore," the boy said quietly, as if speaking much above a whisper would disturb a hidden silence that he was relishing in. Astrid could already tell that this boy was not like any simple healer. He did not speak incantations in order to bend the wills of the elements. He was so much more powerful, stronger, and skilled. Natural. That was the word that described the way he had so easily waved his fingers about, causing the flame to dance like he had created an invisible wind that teased at the tendrils of golden heat.

"Well," Astrid mused after a moment, "they probably say that because the female is much more intelligent than the average blundering oaf." She rocked back and forth sharply. "You do not really strike me as the blundering oaf type, though."

The boy's lips curled upwards into a crooked grin. "Then I would be most inclined to thank you, Astrid. There is little appreciation for magic these days when it is not used by the palace healers for science. Only my mother—"

"Your mother? Does she live here?"

"Of _course_ she does," the boy said like it was painfully obvious. His brow furrowed. "You are visiting the Asgardian palace on the demands of your mother the politician, right? It did not occur to you that at some point in your visitation, you may just run into some of the residents?"

"What—what do you mean _'the residents'_?" Astrid's hazel eyes stretched wide.

 _"_ _My mother, the Queen of Asgard?"_ the boy groaned in exasperation, pressing his agile long fingers to his temples like she was giving him a headache.

Astrid's eyes got even larger, if that was possible. "You're—you're a _prince?"_ She turned the thought over in her head.

"Please, pick up your jaw; you might swallow flies."

"Um, should I bow or…or curtsy or something?"

Loki's ocean colored eyes hardened. "No," he ground out. "Please don't bow. Of all the things not to do in my presence, please don't bow. And _you_ do not seem the frilly curtsying type yourself, Astrid. From where do you hail? You seem awful keen to go back there right now. I can see plainly that you are not overly fond of politics."

"Vanaheim. But my mother says that Anaheim and its brutish warlike ways are more accustomed to my taste. I didn't even know I had a taste until she pointed that out. I have always been a little too different for their tastes, though, my lord."

"Just Loki."

"What?"

"Call me by my first name, please, it's a lot easier."

"All right then, my—Loki. It's not that I dislike politics, but some of the stuffy diplomats and senators and representatives. Nothing ever seems to happen unless our Queen decrees it. Everyone else seems a few centuries behind the times."

"Look at that, you are a natural. With a bit of practice, you will be using my name as though it is second nature. Now, you said that you wanted to see more magic, did you not?"

Astrid nodded, her still wide eyes brightening. Loki cast a sidelong look at the snacks lying in their napkin, and the book. He bent down and picked these up, and Astrid got a glimpse of the treats hidden within the napkin's folds. When he stood up again, the height difference was renewed once more, but it didn't make her feel uncomfortable. It oddly enough made her feel safe.

She had heard rumors, of course, about the other Prince. The rumors had never come with a name, but words floated around a mysterious figure. Most of all of the elaborate stories boiled down to two simple things: mischief, and trickster.

He did not appear to be deceiving her now. Of course, if he was actually trying, she wouldn't know firsthand.

"Come," he commanded, "there's someone that I think you would like to meet."

"How do I know that this is not just some trick?" Astrid didn't budge from her seat on the floor. Loki rolled his eyes. Sarcasm, the girl noticed, seemed to be another one of his strong suits.

"There seems to be nothing that I can say that will in any way sway your judgement, so the decision to follow me, I am afraid to say, is completely yours." There was that infuriatingly charming grin again, and the fact that this boy, this Prince could have charm and wit and still annoy her was another talent of his. Well-rounded, she figured. Blasted magicians.

"The term that we prefer is Mage," Loki informed Astrid, who had yet to budge from her position. "Oh come now, really, you honestly are under the impression that I would rat you out?"

Astrid nodded. The last thing that she wanted to have happen was the younger of Frigga's sons deporting her to her mother and having to deal with the consequences. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You mean…you're _not_ going to turn me in to my mother?"

"Obviously not," the prince groused, running a hand through his raven hair, tousling the locks out of place. Astrid had her own opinion that it made him appear more approachable, less rigid and cold, like a sharp icicle. Like he was what the rumors had all said—mischievous. "Why do you think I come here to this part of the library?"

The thought struck her back. It would make perfect sense, especially if he were to practice magic. He would want his own space, a place where his secrets were his own and no one else's. This room in the middle of the catacombs of ancient texts was absolutely perfect for that one sole purpose.

"Why exactly were you hiding out here then, my—Loki?" Once again, she caught herself on the slip of the tongue. She saw the boy smirk. When he smirked at her, she had the stinking suspicion that she would be seeing a lot of that smile for a while.

Why had he given her permission to use his name? Why? The prince of Asgard had no idea what had driven him to that. He was supposed to maintain an air of authority, which, he did suppose, had worn off a little bit after the girl had seen him stowing away in the library, practicing magic. And here was his second question: Why had she not been afraid? Magic could be harmful, deadly even. It was the art of bending reality, and wielded by the wrong hands, could have disastrous repercussions. She should have been afraid of him. She had every right to; he would not blame her. Being afraid of snakes and spiders (he was inclined towards snakes, very intelligent and graceful and mysterious beings, while spiders made him inwardly cringe in disgust at the small hairy bodies and spindled legs stretching and grasping) was one thing, but fearing magic was entirely respectable.

Hardly registering the weight of the tome in his arms, Loki wordlessly took a small pastry from within the napkin and handed it over to the girl. Astrid took it reluctantly, but not as though she didn't trust him. She hesitated as if she was still trying to wrap her mind around everything that she had seen and done within the past few minutes. It was plaintively obvious that the poor girl was overwhelmed. _Meet a strange girl in the library and you give her sweets,_ Loki scolded himself. _By the gods, you've finally gone mad from spending too much time around Thor._

Astrid gave the pastry a once over, marveling at its soft, flaky exterior that was puffed fat and fluffy with air. The pastry was brushed with some sort of delicate powdered sugar that tasted almost feathery as it touched her tongue. She blinked when the sweet and tart fruit filling was released from its airy prison, relishing every little sensation that she got as the pastry danced its flavors over her tongue.

Even on agricultural Vanaheim such delicacies were a fine treat. Astrid supposed that she would never taste something so wonderful again.

"Are you trying to bribe me?" she said around the mouthful of pastry, and the prince had to hide a grin when he saw that the area surrounding her lips was dusted white with decorative sugar.

"Now where in the Nine Realms would you come up with such a notion?" The grin was now visible. And when was the last time that he had smiled like this, out of sheer pleasure and mild amusement?

"Well, Loki, whether it is or not, it's working," Astrid remarked, licking some of the fine sugar out of the crook of her mouth. She sighed happily.

She said it. His name. His grin widened.

"The person that I want you to meet is not truly a person if you will. He is my instructor—only my mother and I know where his chambers are. My father does not know, and the all-seeing gatekeeper Heimdall has sworn himself to secrecy unless in dire times in which desperate measures are required."

"What is he like, this instructor of yours? Is he the man that teaches you magic?"

"Yes, and as for what you think of him, you will have to establish that for yourself. He is not at all what you would expect."

"He must be odd."

Loki sighed. "True, true that. Come along then, follow me. And try to stay close behind. Getting lost in this place can be a blessing and a curse."


	7. Chapter V

The naval base was huge. Its mere size was enough to render me temporarily speechless. My eyes were no longer strained, and my headache had toned down on the agonizing factor a few more degrees so that it was almost ignorable. Almost. With every lessening in the pull of something inside of my brain, the pulse of a small hidden vein, my vision sharpened. And sharpened. Soon the sharpness was nearly worse than the blinding confusion of blurred eyesight. All of the noises around me were enhanced, like I was hearing everything from underwater, the liquid reverberating the sound.

At the front entrance of the base was some heavily armed Russian officer who cradled his machine gun with as much ease as a small child carried around a stuffed animal. Hiding his eyes were dark tinted shades that reflected his surroundings. I could see myself in those glossy lenses, ruffled and torn a bit at the edges like any old piece of junk. My hair was greasy, and my skin had not yet fully recovered from being lashed with the restraint chains on that experimentation table. My palms had been rubbed with snow to clean them of dirt, but I looked pretty much like some godforsaken refugee.

"Agent Luna?" the officer questioned, his mouth barely moving to form the words. I gave a small nod. "You have a badge to prove your identification?"

I pursed my chapped lips in disdain, and the skin cracked even more. I ran my tongue over them and tasted the faintest bit of iron. Bleeding lips in the winter. Yay. The guard looked a little _too_ comfortable with that gun, now that I rethought it.

"I don't have identification with me," I tried to explain. "Being kidnapped kind of rules out that option, sir."

"I cannot let you in without identification."

"Oh, for the love of—"

"She's with me, Viktor," came a voice from inside of the gate. There was a clunking sound as the tall metal mesh gate swung open, probably by way of a security pass judging by the rest of the security in this place.

A man was revealed, not all that tall, dressed sharply in a dark suit and a navy blue tie. Still, he had never looked at all like a corporate business man to me. He looked like he could shoot me point blank without me even noticing, or strangle me with that tie of his. Either way, his presence spoke of control, command, and every little fiber in his body I knew to be made of steel resolve and iron will. He had short brown hair that was starting to recede a bit from his forehead, and a strong jaw, probably from staring determinedly so much at the wayward world with those dark brown-green eyes of his.

"Coulson," I breathed. "Thank goodness." I hastily shoved the cookie tin into the head agent's arms, resulting in him casting me a bewildered glance before he said shortly,

"Save it for later, kid." Kid. He liked calling me that, and I discovered it to be a subtle form of endearment. He hated calling me 'Luna' because it wasn't even my real name, and because of my young age, I wasn't allowed to use my birth name in the field. So 'kid' it was, and 'kid' it would stay. Coulson stared Viktor down. "Thank you, Viktor, we'll be off now." He shook the Russian guard's hand firmly, one swift downwards stroke of forearm and fist shared both ways before just as firmly grabbing my own shoulder steering me by the arm as he led me into the base.

"I—" I began, nervously biting at my lip out of habit.

"Not until we get on the chopper, Agent."

There was something in the way that he stood today that told me not to press the matter any further and to follow orders as strictly as I could. I hated being strict, but I complied as I was led through a sectioned off portion of the base to a small private helicopter landing pad. If I didn't know any better, I would say that SHIELD itself had built it specifically for themselves.

Everything was quiet. The wind was still bitter, carried off of a nearby body of water at high speeds, but everything surrounding the landing pad was hushity-hush.

The helicopter was small and sleek, plated in a dull black armor, aerodynamic and sharply tuned as one of Clint's arrows. I wanted to learn how to fly that thing immediately. I hazarded a quick cut of my eyes to Coulson, and saw that his mouth was lifted at the corners slightly in a smile. I guess that he could tell how eager I was.

"No, you can't fly it, kid," he told me, and pouted. "Not today anyways."

I immediately brightened at that. All my life, I had always wanted to fly. I didn't care that much about any other superpower, but I did envy those with flight. What would it be like, to know the constellations and the clouds like the towns and cities below? To see everything as a swath of ever-changing color, whole, instead of divided? There was something special about that unison of everything, being able to see small roads melt into other roads, forming highways, patchworks of irregular bands of grey.

The chopper had a pilot, and enough room for four passengers in its comfortable dark leather seats.

"Fury payed some good dough for this baby," I admired, running my hand over the leather and drinking in the smell.

"Yeah, he did. And he would as soon as shoot you if you spilled coffee on his precious plane. Well, this precious plane to be specific. This one is designed specifically for missions just like this, where an Agent is compromised and there isn't enough time or space to send in backup or a retrieval party. So, this little beauty became part of the equation."

"I drink tea."

"You honestly think that Fury would care?"

"A fair point, sir."

"Take us out," Coulson said a bit louder, and the pilot who was seated a few feet in front of us, separated from the passenger compartment by a thick plastic screen. Bulletproof, I had no doubt. Glass would have been stupid, as it shattered a lot more easily than plastic did, and when sharp little daggers of it go flying outwards, plastic breaks a bit more cleanly. Meaning in case of an emergency, you wouldn't die on impact. Which was reassuring, because I had no idea how well this pilot could 'drive'.

As soon as the chopper lifted off, my headache was renewed. My gut was thrust somewhere between my heart and my spleen. I normally loved roller-coasters—I was that kind of girl—but not with a migraine. The sound of the rotating blades overhead, although much quieter than a usual helicopter's blades were, for stealth, the repetitive thrumming made my eardrums vibrate. I ground my teeth together, hoping that it would distract from the pain in my head that went unnoticed by Coulson, who was currently staring absent-mindedly out of the side window of the chopper. I took a second to peek out as well. My breath hitched.

Clouds. Everywhere.

Grey dashed billowing white was all that I could see beneath an expanse of canvas so blue it couldn't be real. Bluer than the plumage of a male peacock, the lapis lazuli gemstone, the waters of the Great Barrier Reef. Brilliant light pierced those wondrous billowing waves of pure snow and silver, frosting the ridges with gold instead of crystal.

"Enjoying the view?"

Coulson's humored tone broke me away from my daydreaming. He was smirking, but it soon faded as some other thought occurred to him.

"What were you doing in Russia, kid?" he demanded, turning his frame so that it faced mine imposingly. His voice managed to drop to a whisper audible over the chopper blades as they whirled like giant machetes, fast enough to keep us airborne. The pilot hit some turbulence, and my brain careened into my skull. At least, that's what it felt like. If that was what had really happened, I would be dead. Or a potato. Whichever one came first.

"It happened in the control center," I gritted out, waiting for the nausea to pass. It didn't. "Someone got in somehow, I have no idea. I was the only person left on the main floor when Natasha and I were watching NCIS."

"Natasha watches NCIS?"

"Only after we finished an episode of Sherlock, but after that, everyone headed up to their quarters. The room that we were in didn't have a security feed, but the hallway leading to it did. I'm guessing that whoever kidnapped me used the ventilation system or something. There wasn't anything in the room that could be a halfway decent weapon other than the television remote. The kidnapper had something hard in their hands—I think that it was a metal bar of some kind—and I was hit over the head with it. Boom. Lights out for the Agent. Hard metal bars work as good as sedatives, but…I'm guessing that they pumped me full of those as well."

"You have no idea why they took you?"

"Experimentation."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, sir. They put something into my bloodstream. I'm having these huge headaches, and every sound that I hear is amplified enough that it hurts, and my vision is hovering between being really sharp and really fuzzy." As if on cue, my ears began ringing again.

"How did you escape?"

"I was lashed down to a table, and I was hooked up to this big machine that I couldn't really see, because it was behind the table. There were lots of needles in me, injecting this blue stuff. It kind of glowed, if you can believe that."

Coulson's eyes narrowed. "I'm not aware that any medication like that exists, kid."

"Well, it _was_ experimentation—"

"No, I meant on Earth. There's nothing in the records that matches what you're describing. Sure, there's blue fluid that can be used to flush out the system, things like ordinary medics would use. This…this is different. The reactions that you're experiencing don't exist."

His jaw was clenched, like he was remembering something. I bit the inside of my cheek.

"It's alien," I muttered.

"Yeah, that's for sure," Coulson muttered, still wrapped up in his own thoughts.

"No, I mean extra-terrestrial. Sir, I think that they injected my bloodstream with alien blood."

His eyes shot upwards.

"Positive?"

"Positive."

"Damn."


	8. The Past: Part III

The Prince of Asgard led her left and right, back and forth, over and over again through the seemingly endless maze of books. The shelves were like tall, imposing hedges in a garden of musty-smelling darkness, sense invigorating all the same. In this strange and foreign world, she felt something that she had not felt in a long time. She supposed that it might be adrenaline. Excitement. Daring. And more than anything, she relished in this feeling, letting it wash over her and absorb itself into every fiber of her body. Strangely enough, she felt no fear in this darkness being led by a stranger. No, she felt _alive._

"How much farther?" she inquired after they had been walking for quite a while. Although time had passed, she knew that it was not nearly long enough for her mother to even register her absence.

"A few more turns and we will be there," her guide promised. "Pastry wearing off?"

"As if," she shot back, and a chuckle was the response that she got. She could just see the outline of Loki's frame, tall and lean, so different from almost all of the boys she had encountered who were made of heavy bones, a lot of meat, and twice that amount in stupidity. When she heard rumors about this boy, she had always assumed that he was like the others. It was only natural that fate would prove her completely wrong. _He is so different,_ she thought, but the way that Loki's back stiffened told her that she had said it aloud as well.

"What?"

Astrid balked under what she assumed was an accusatory glare. "I—I meant no disrespect, my lord," she stuttered. "Please, I just—"

"You were merely being observant, Astrid, and I am glad for that. It is good to be different in some respects, is it not?" His tone was light, but the words were still weighted. They still sent shivers up and down her spine. Silvertongue, she reminded herself. The boy was gifted with the powers of persuasion as well as being horrible clever. _Blast his cleverness! Why can he not be as dense as unleavened bread like the rest of them?_

"I suppose it is," she admitted, knowing that she had never fit the feminine mold. She sure looked the part, and Loki had guessed that she would one day grow to be a beautiful woman, but her heart was not that of most maidens. Having known her for only a few minutes, he could already read this much about her.

Being the younger brother, second in line, he had always been regarded as second best. In his case, this gave him the advantage. While courtiers swooned over his brother, Loki had been able to learn a lot about the behavior of women. The animal that he was able to associate with them the closest was the clucking and preening hen that traveled in squabbling huddles of crinolines and wide skirts, extravagant hair, and facial powder that left a lingering scent that made the younger prince feel like sneezing. For some reason, it was just impossible for him to envision this Astrid girl as one of the courtiers, happy at least, and prim and flirtatious. Let it be known that Loki was hard to please. Many of these women had come to him after they were thrown out by Thor, who had obviously found a greater beauty, but the answer had always been the same—NO.

They had always begged him to give them a chance. What they neglected to realize was that he knew everything about them already. They would complement him. The first thing that they would usually mention would be his eyes, then the hair, then something else if he hadn't declined quickly enough, and on and on and on. It was endlessly annoying, and the hard part about these courtiers was that he still had to be gentlemanly when telling them in simple terms, to lay off and let him breath, because there was no way in the Nine Realms that he would ever even mildly consider courting such a ridiculous pig, thank you very much. Of course, he didn't say this exactly, but he made sure that the flimsy frilly things knew that it was most heavily implied.

Astrid was not flimsy. And she wasn't a ridiculous pig, either. Sure enough, she had been obedient with him, but she had run from her mother in order to do so. _The girl,_ he admitted sourly to himself, _has got some guts._

"Treat me as a friend and not your Prince, Astrid," he requested of her.

"Then if that is so, lead on, or you may need to persuade me further with another one of those treats of yours."

"Oh, don't tempt me."

"Do you often practice your magic in this library?" Astrid wondered when he began walking again. He could probably find his way through here with his eyes shut tight. He seemed to have memorized the pathway like he knew the back of his hand.

"It is hidden from most eyes, as very few people even take the trouble to read nowadays, which is very sad, but it is also a place of knowledge. I assume that you have noticed a change in the air?"

Astrid raised an eyebrow. She tucked a strand of her dirty blonde hair behind her ear, wondering what the Prince could possibly mean by that. So she asked him.

"In every library, there is a certain smell," he explained, his words coming out, hitching minutely whenever his next step made contact with the floor. "The tingling in the air that you're feeling is not from dust, but from small particles of magic that have leaked out of some of our more ancient spell books."

"Wonderful. I hope that it's not toxic."

"I would be dead by now if it were so," Loki reassured her, and he took a left. "I spend a lot of time here, especially in this section. The old lore and texts on magicks and spells from Asgard and from other worlds is much deeper than more modern books put it. The old books hurt more if you drop them on your toes, but they hold so much more within them. The old ways still surpass today's methods, at least in the matters of sorcery."

Another left.

"Why are you taking me to see your teacher? I was spying on you, shouldn't you be—oh I don't know—turning me in or something of the like?"

A right this time.

"You are an intriguing character," was all he said.

"Geez, thanks."

He sounded slightly embarrassed when he replied. "No, that's not what I meant," he said quickly, as though he had blundered. "It is just that I think that he may want to meet you."

"Why?"

"You ask that question a lot, don't you?"

"Yes."

"That's good."

She looked at the back of his head, puzzled. "Why?"

Loki sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. It was something that he did when he was frustrated. "By the Valar, you can be infuriating, can't you?"

The young girl mock bowed behind him. "It is one of my many talents, my lord."

The talking was thankfully passing the time by. "What are some of the other things that you enjoy, Astrid?"

"I have always loved to write and to draw, and then acting out what I write, singing loudly when I know that I'm alone, and making my own creations when I sneak down to our kitchens to make myself a snack. Mother always reprimanded me that if I kept at making things instead of just taking what I was given, it would lead to being a disgrace on the family. Like being the only creative person in her household was too great a burden to bear, or something."

"Pardon me, but that seems just the slightest bit idiotic," the Prince interjected.

"I am glad to see that I am not the only one who thinks like that."

"A quick warning before you meet my instructor," Loki warned. "He can be a bit…erratic at times. Those that are not accustomed to his methods find themselves befuddled, and sometimes insulted."

"Hogwash. I'm sure that he is a wonderful teacher."

There was a chuckle. "He is, Astrid. That he is. I did not expect a lady such as yourself to use the term 'hogwash', but it is altogether properly fitting."

Left.

Stop.

There was a door, suddenly, as though it had not been there one second, and the next it had simply appeared. Around the edges of the flat slatted wood panels, slivers of pale golden light had managed to slice through the dimness of the library. The light was surprisingly warm, like sunlight or fire, but it was altogether otherworldly and mysterious.

"Well, he seems to be home," Loki murmured, and with that, he raised his fist to knock on the door.


	9. Chapter VI

Coulson had been wounded in the Battle of New York. At least, that's what everybody was calling it. I didn't think that anything so horrible should get such a simple name. It's not like the words "New York" instilled terror in the hearts of men. He had been on the same helicarrier as the prisoner that SHIELD tried to restrain. Apparently, the prisoner didn't want to be restrained, because instead of quiet cooperation, he tried to take down the entire plane. The only thing that I know about this prisoner? A name. No history, no files, no face to fit the name. I had tried to gain access to those files shortly after the battle. A Level Seven clearance was needed to even glimpse at the basic stuff.

Those that had inside information intended to keep it secret. Records had been wiped clean. The database had been scourged, without a byte of evidence of what had transpired that fated day when hell rained down on New York City in the form of fallen buildings, flying shrapnel, and dancing sparks all tossed about crudely by the wind and the almost magnetic pull of what had been a portal from a netherworld to our home planet. I could remember the day all too clearly. My thoughts wandered from the thrumming of the helicopter blades, and let the memories come back.

It was early when I got the call. I was stationed at one of the many small headquarter branches spread out over the East Coast, and it wasn't the usual tone of my morning alarm that woke me from my light slumber, but shouting, anger mixed with fear, mass pandemonium outside of my small cell room door. My sleeping quarters were extremely small, allowing just enough space on the bare metal floor for a dresser, a little hygiene station and a bed. No windows allowed any light in, and my bed covers were a sterile white over a cold metal frame, pillows soft but encased in a scratchy sort of material that only flattened out after a few uncomfortable nights. The sink would have been almost adorable in its minute size, had it not yet again been metal. Everything in this facility was metal.

I threw the covers from my legs, letting the cool air settle over my newly exposed limbs for only a second before I slid from the hard mattress and to the metal-paneled floor. My lungs filled with the smell of iron, and a sharp shot of cold coursed up my legs from my feet where they met the chilled metal causing me to inhale sharply. It felt like someone was running cold water up my shins. Taking the few steps necessary to get to my door, a solid panel that slid in and out of the wall, and guiding my fingers through the electric combination lock that sealed the entrance, I stepped out into the alien world in nothing but my night clothes.

Screams. That was the first thing that my brain registered. Noise clouded my ears, machines making their screeching alarms blare, and over and over again, the sound repeating and grinding on my eardrums: _warning…warning…warning._

Everything had dissolved into a pool of chaos. Agents were running all over the place through the narrow hall that my room forked from, some in their uniforms, some half-dressed, others like myself in hardly anything other than thin linens that formed loose shirts and straight legged pants in a navy fabric. One thing was common in every last one of them, though. That panic, that air of disturbance that I knew I also carried. No one had any idea what was going on. That was the worrisome thing, the strain ignorance and being isolated only making matters worse. From amidst the scrambling agents came a familiar face. Ronan was his name, and he had led me in hand-to-hand combat, as well as gun tactics. He was a tall man, strong and muscled all over, dark skinned with wiry hair that was beginning to look like steel wool, frosted silver at the tips. To my surprise, he was already in full combat gear. His dark uniform had been replaced with the garb of a heavily armed field operative. A belt hung at his waist, and he had strapped an enormous gun to his back. It looked too large to even be allowed, but the gun gave me no reassurance. All it contributed to was my growing sense of fear. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong indeed.

The massive gunman took me by the shoulder and hurried me along the tide of rushing people. It was by sheer luck that I was not swept away. Or, it could have been the grip of iron that Ronan kept on my shoulder.

"What's going on?" I demanded as he pulled me into another room, this one being larger, a storage room for extra field outfits. "Ronan, what the heck is happening?"

"Director's been on coms with me, kid." His voice was deep and reassuring but now the deep baritone of the man had become more of an ill omen instead of a Hail Mary pass. He called me 'kid' like Coulson did, in the same sort of endearing way, like they had taken ownership over my personal safety. He wordlessly threw a uniform about my size at my chest, and I bundled the cloth against my chest. I looked at it skeptically. "Put it on. Quickly. I won't look. Just make it fast."

"I don't—"

"I have orders from Fury, kid. You're coming with me. New York is under attack. No one has any idea what the blazes is going on, and right now the only orders I have are from Fury himself. He said we have to protect the civilians. That's our only mission until further notice and some things clear up. Now put on your suit and grab a gun. I hope that you never have to use it in live action, but your day will come, just as mine did. It always does."

With that, he spun around on his heel, giving me a good view of the impressive piece of warfare he had strapped to his back as I hastily yanked my navy sleeping clothes off and pulled the black skintight pants on, hating the way that they clung to every curve on my figure. I hated drawing attention to myself, but the slick design of the suit made one much more aerodynamic and stealthy. The black leather jacket went over it, and I grinned despite myself. I had made it clear that I preferred a leather top to a stretchy spandex one, simply because while still being soft, it was a much more resilient material. Soft soled boots went on last, and I managed to comb my long tangles back with my fingers.

"I'm all set, Ronan," I told him as I shifted uncomfortably in the new clothing. Ronan about faced, and once again clasped a hand to my shoulder. I was steered back into the hallway of chaos, wondering what was happening. My feet made little noise on the slick flooring tiles. We made our way out of the hallway and into a small hanger where a stash of one-man fighter planes as sleek as bullets and carriers that allowed for a few men to work as a crew. Ronan made a beeline for one of those larger planes. I trailed hesitantly, not having any idea what I was getting myself into. For once, I did not welcome a surprise. I used to be the first to volunteer, but now this fear behind the mask of another drill procedure had my palms itching.

My heart pounded as the alarms wailed overhead and I was dragged aboard the plane along with five other agents, all of these young men, the best in my gun tactics class. Apparently, I had been voted the best in my all-female lessons. I was the only one of Ronan's girl students present. Next to me in the passengers' section of the plane sat a tall gangly youth with a mop of wild ginger curls. He was twiddling his thumbs, and kept casting the occasional glance at the giant gun that Ronan now had on his lap. He sat on the same side as me, and across from our row on the other side of the plane's belly was a boy with close-cropped blonde hair and a crooked nose, probably from being broken, and two others with russet locks and freckles so identical they had to be twins. I knew none of their names.

"Do you have any idea what's going on?" I whispered to the gangly boy next to me. He looked up from his vigorous thumb twiddling and gave me a hopeless stare.

"I know just as much as you," he sighed. "Assuming, that is, that Ronan herded you up, forced you to get dressed in field gear, and then follow him?"

"Pretty much," I replied, groaning softly as I leaned my head back and stared at the ceiling. I leaned forward then and rested my forearms on my thighs. "What's your name?"

He seemed surprised that I was being so forward. It was obvious that most of the female agents clustered together like they would have, out in the streets in great haggles. However, I normally found them shallow and settled for the intelligent human being instead of the giggling hoards. On this plane, I got the strange feeling that getting to know these boys of about my age would be valuable to my future. I also didn't want to be alone during what could very likely be a terrorist attack. From the way that everyone was acting though, this couldn't be a simple act of terror. We were running like it was life or death.

"Nathaniel," he murmured.

I swallowed as the plane hatch closed and the engine was started, a whirling roar slipping quickly through the internal structure of the metal bird. "Nice to meet you Nathaniel," I nearly shouted over the sound of takeoff protocols. "I'm Kane."

A half smile came over Nathaniel's lips. "I know."

I raised an eyebrow. "What? How—?"

"Ronan talks about you all of the time," he explained, waving his hands. That was something that I had noticed about him; he talked using gestures a lot, as though they helped him convey the meanings of words. I found him easy to communicate with immediately. I was glad for some familiarity, because right then, it was all that was holding me together in this pit of insanity that all of us were falling into without a way out.

"All good things, I hope?" I joked.

He nodded. "Definitely. You're one of our best, aren't you? At least out of the younger group of us, that is. Sharpshooter Kane, Ronan calls you. Probably behind your back."

"I _was_ planning on telling you," Ronan grumbled. He saw my skeptical expression and sighed resignedly. "Forget it." When he spoke again, his voice was louder and was directed at all of us in the plane. The boys and I turned our heads to face him as he debriefed us. Normally debriefing was done before the agent went out on the mission. This was an in-the-moment debrief, meaning that there was no time to be wasted. I just wanted to know what was happening. I hated being left in the dark. Even Ronan was not all that sure what we were up against, and that alone was enough to make any accomplished agent nervous. When the best of the best is clueless, things are going to get messy, and fast. "You five are my best at firearms, and also some of my best strategists. I chose you few to lead a section of people out of the northwest sector of the city. We wanted to keep you younger folk out of the range of the big guns. No matter how good you are right now, no matter what you think or where you want to be, you are _not_ ready for the hell that you are going to go through sometime in your lives. We're taking you to the innermost section of your area where you will warn the locals. Tell them to spread the word. If they all head due north from their location, they will find that we have transport to take them all to the outskirts. So far, our men have managed to quarantine the fighting and most of the damage to a few city blocks."

"Your men?" the blonde boy interrupted. His brow was furrowed in confusion. "I thought that the main strike forces were spread all along the coast. Where did you manage to scrape up a sizeable offensive?"

Ronan sighed again, running a large veined hand through his wiry hair, causing it to stick up in bedraggled clumps. "Agent Natasha Romanov is part of this elite strike team. There are a few select others, totaling to six. The second is Barton, the third Doctor Bruce Banner, and the fourth Steve Rogers—formerly known as Captain America—the fifth Tony Stark, and finally, we managed to gain a little bit more extraterrestrial brawn. We have Thor of Asgard. Great guy. I hope that you all get the chance to meet him someday."

Nathaniel nodded. "What do they call themselves, these six?"

"Well, actually, nothing yet. They…aren't getting along as well as we would have hoped. They have very little in common other than the ultimate goal they all strive for, so their relationship as a team is still in the early developing stages. SHIELD calls them the Avengers. My best guess on that decision was that Fury liked it."

I blinked twice, rapidly, feet vibrating against the bottom of the plane, and below that floor, nothingness surrounded me. After a few more minutes of uncomfortable idle time spent, a scratchy voice came over the intercom over our heads. It was the pilot speaking to us, his voice crackling with static.

"We'll be landing in ten minutes," he informed us. My insides squirmed, and the rest of my companions looked nervous. Disheveled as they were, I could tell that they were holding out for each other. We spent the last few agonizing minutes in a stillness that ate away at my bones. Ronan was tapping his fingers randomly on his thighs. I couldn't detect any pattern in the movements, so it appeared as a nervous tick. There was a small handgun strapped beneath my seat, and making as little noise as I could, I bent over, seatbelt making the position uncomfortable, and removed the gun. Leaning back, I let out a breath that I didn't know I had been holding. The smooth metal in my hands was cool, and it calmed some of my climbing nerves. However, my adrenaline continued to pump at full force, flooding my rationality.

There were small windows built into the passenger's section, but the thin black blinds had been pulled across them. One of the portholes was just over Nathaniel's shoulder, and I saw him bring his hand up to peel the screening away. I cleared my throat softly, and his hand froze, his eyes shooting over to me. I gave a shake of my head, lips pursed. He cast his gaze downwards, and his hand slowly fell back to his lap. None of us needed to see what was happening. _I_ didn't want to know anymore. The pilot had only just announced our decent when the first round of gunfire shattered the silence.


	10. The Past: Part IV

The door was yanked open before Loki could even lay a hand to the wood. Astrid gaped at the man that now stood before her.

He was tall, with high cheekbones and a long nose that did not look altogether like a beak, but more majestic than most elderly noses did. The lower half of his face was mostly hidden by a thick covering of cloudy tangled beard braided down at the bottom, which dangled down his chest over a loose grey shirt. Over the shirt was a knee-length coat, and when the man's sleeves were rolled back, strong arms riddled with scars and blackened with intricate patterns of tattooed runes. The runes were faded and done in black ink, not merely decorative art, but more likely powerful incantations in their written form scribed on skin. Many of them were protective shielding spells, others almost random as though he were a child scribbling hidden notes on his palm before an exam. Silver hair spilled over his shoulders, and he looked both wizard and warrior in the dim light of whatever fire he had in his chambers that caused the hazel color of his eyes to blaze with gold.

"Master," Loki greeted, bowing his head respectfully. The old man's eyes crinkled in some bemused mischief that made him appear years younger.

"I see that you have brought a friend!" he exclaimed. The voice was a deep baritone although still clear. A bushy snarled eyebrow raised. "And a lady one at that." He caught wind of the napkin of sweets in Astrid's arms. " _And_ you have brought me cakes and pasties! My boy, you do spoil me. Not that I am disappointed in your doting on an old man, of course, do not take me wrong. Who is this lovely young lady you bring to me today? I have not seen her face before. Not that," he added solemnly, "I see many faces in the first place if you know what I mean."

"This is Astrid, Master," the young god of mischief announced, gesturing to her. "She managed to find me somehow in the library and saw me practicing magic. She came with me because she wants to see more."

The old man's brow furrowed deeply. "Never before have you brought anyone to see _me._ Also, why a female, and what is this girl doing away from the palace servants—or her parents for that matter?" His gaze bored into Astrid's soul, leaving her feeling exposed. Summoning up what little courage she had, she told him what had happened, how she had escaped her mother and wandered into the library to use it as a safe haven and met the Prince, who had been doing something incredible that she had never seen before.

"Excuse me, sir," she squeaked out, "but does anyone else know of Loki's abilities?"

"His mother at the moment. He has refrained from telling his brother, and even more so his father."

"Why? It is a marvelous gift, he shouldn't be afraid to share it."

Loki rolled his eyes and attempted to explain. "My brother Thor would hardly care one way or another if he knew of my powers. Honestly, I wish to keep them secret from him so that one day my magic might be stronger than that confounded hammer he boasts of wielding so carelessly. Mjolnir was forged in a river of magic, although most only speak of the brute strength in its enhanced iron. As for my father…he would not support my chosen revenue of profession."

Astrid raised an eyebrow. "But he's your father," she protested. "Surely he would welcome talent?"

"His father does not find favor even in women using magic," the old man replied with a sour grimace of disproval. "He seems to despise the art itself. Now please do come in; I hate leaving people on my doorstep."

He stepped away from the door and ushered them in. The room itself was even more fascinating than the man himself, if that was possible.

It was completely circular to begin with, the walls wrapped around to create a smooth surface. For some unknown reason, there were rafters webbing under a domed ceiling, and from the rafters dangled trinkets in all shapes and sizes: bundles of dried herbs, strands of intricate sea shells, wood carvings on strings and pieces of multicolored sea glass tied together. There were no windows, but a large fireplace behind a roughly carven dining table littered with huge old tomes snapped merrily, tongues of flame lapping peacefully as sparks were tossed onto the hearth. The floor was a shade darker than the walls, and it had a rippling pattern to its grain, reminding Astrid fondly of the rivers of Vanaheim. There was a cot pushed to the side as though sleep mattered little, and there was a closet that latched shut, and a nightstand with a glass plate on top, stacked high with mounds of white candles in a castle-like pile of random turrets. Astrid spun around to absorb her surroundings.

"So…this is where you live?" she wondered aloud. The room did not radiate the presence of a sorcerer or a powerful magical being. In fact, it was almost homey in structure. The one clue to who lived here was the bookshelf next to the bed stocked to the ceiling with spell books and ingredients for potions and elixirs. "It's quite comfortable. I like it."

The old man chuckled. "Thank you very much. The name's Myron," he added as he settled himself into a spindle-legged chair before the fire. The flames cast strange shadows on his face and clothes and caused some of the individual hairs of his great beard to glitter like hot wires. "My pupil here tells me that you wanted to see more magic."

"Yes, yes I do sir, very much," Astrid said, scrambling with her words. She had little to no practice with communicating with wizards or mages—or Princes for that matter. When Loki had spoken to her as though he was no greater in society than she was, it had taken her for a surprise. It was odd to think of the image of the younger Prince of Asgard that had been implanted in her mind before she had met him. That more dim-witted, brawnier, more golden image. It was like imagining a sunrise and getting midnight instead, or preparing for summer only to get a snowstorm. Loki currently stood beside her, tall frame relaxed in this environment. There was that same tingling feeling in the air that the library had held. "Although I did not think that the Prince would bring me here to see you." She fiddled with the hem of her tunic.

Myron grinned pleasantly. "Worry not, my dear. It is just as much a surprise to you as it is to me. The boy is not one for bringing anyone to me as a simple show of kindness. Though unannounced, I think that I may make an exception for one who shows such interest in the ether world outside of mundane grasp. Where is your mother, may I ask?"

"She is probably talking politics," Astrid told him. "At least, that's what Mother calls it. I think that it is all rather boring." She flushed when Myron raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Sorry, it's just that it _is_ all rather dull." She bowed her head, and looked up in surprise when she heard the Prince laugh softly under his breath. "My lord?"

"Loki," he chuckled, looking up at her with his eyes twinkling in amusement. "And you may be the first girl to accurately describe the courtly behaviors in this palace."

"He is not all that fond of the courtiers," Myron told Astrid in a stage whisper. She giggled, envisioning the exchanges between the strange young man and the frilly ladies of the court. Loki glared at them both.

"I fail to find the humor in this," he drawled. "There is nothing amusing about a small army of deranged women after your flesh."

"And your title and wealth, don't forget," Myron added in sympathetically. The Prince huffed.

"Women," he grumbled.

Astrid narrowed her eyes at him indignantly. "We are not all so bad. Some of us can be quite civilized when we put our minds to it, that is, if we actually try."

"No wonder your mother does not seem altogether distressed by your disappearance. You are a bit too untamed for her taste, I would presume." The Prince smirked lightly with the corner of his lips. He seemed to understand her, at least, he understood that she did not belong, being a lone wolf himself. The loners knew their own pack.

Myron broke into their conversation, twisting some of the long hairs of his beard around his forefinger. "Nevertheless, you came here to observe magic. You know, if you do enjoy it, perhaps I might give you a few lessons, seeing if you are up to the task or even magically gifted." A secretive smile had painted itself over his countenance.

"You would?"

"Most definitely, my dear." He snatched up a pastry and took a ravenous bite from the flaky sugar-encrusted dessert as though he had not eaten in days. Seeing the piles of books on the table, pages freshly turned and free of dust, it was to be assumed that this was true. The way that he finished of the pastry, a large lump of delicately folded dough filled with creamy fruit jams, was animalistic. He finished it in a matter of seconds. Loki sighed.

"When was the last time that you ate a meal, Master?" he questioned, pulling out a chair at the table first for Astrid, and then one for himself. He reclined placidly into the back of the chair as if he had not relaxed so much in weeks. Sitting down, Astrid had to bend her head to avoid a hanging clump of dried out fruit pits tied together with strands of herbs, most likely for poultices. Myron ignored Loki. He certainly was a strange old man. However, there was something in that hazel gaze that spoke of depth and wisdom beyond even his ancient unnumbered years. He extended a long-fingered hand and grasped the corner of one of the books, pulling it closer to him. Dust flew into the air as it was moved across the table's surface. Something came to life in the Prince's expression.

Myron removed his long coat and draped it over the back of his own spindly chair, revealing those heavily inked arms. There was no telling where the runes ended or where they began. They spiraled around his flesh in some mesmerizing dance of shaped black shadows. His fingers flipped through the pages of the giant tome like a stone skipping over smooth waters. Pushing up his sleeves, he stretched before bending down, nose almost touching the yellowed paper, scrutinizing the spidery writing. At last after a long silence his head snapped up and he exclaimed, "I found it!" Astrid jumped. Her chair creaked in protest. Myron ignored her. "Now," he said as he rubbed his hands together, an invisible energy emitting from them. The energy filled the room like ozone and electricity would during a thunderstorm, "who wants to see some magic?"


End file.
